


The Rainbow Connection

by honeybee_motorcyles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: American Road Trip, Aspergers, Autism, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, I love writing this story, John Watson is a Good Boyfriend, Loving John Watson, M RATED just to make sure, M/M, PTSD Sherlock, PTSD can look very different in people with Autism, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Regression, Road Trips, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Sherlock is a Mess, St. George Utah, Talking, Understanding, men that can talk, mention ABA therapy, mention conversion therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:40:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26986852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybee_motorcyles/pseuds/honeybee_motorcyles
Summary: “John,” Sherlock said, moving towards Carter’s bed. “This is not fair, what happened to him is not fair.  He was just being himself and he was subjected to this. The governments need to ban the use of conversion therapy…"“I know.” Said John wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist.A Road Trip is the best cure for Sherlock and John's relationship. (Post Reichenbach) Angst and fluff.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, to my bata, Ilikestopwatches for the help with syntax, grammar and spelling. this fic wouldn't be the same without you. 
> 
> Also, I know that my Geography is all wrong but that wasn't the point of this story.... thank you for still reading,,,,

John sat at the dinner table, listening to Sherlock scratching his violin, as he wrote his blog for yesterday's case. It was a Saturday. Sherlock had not slept a wink in three days. John wasn’t worried, though, Sherlock had suffered chronic insomnia since he was younger; it was a side effect of his autism. 

John remembered that Sherlock hadn’t eaten in almost a day. He had only drunk tea the whole day. “Sherlock?” John asked as he padded to the sitting room. 

Sherlock didn’t even stir. He just sat there, listless after playing the violin. John was worried. He tapped Sherlock on his shoulder; the detective didn’t move an inch. “Sherlock?” John said. 

Sherlock did stir at that moment but his movement was sluggish which worried John. He had known early on that Sherlock was strange; however, he was acting stranger than usual. “Sherlock, come on, love, you need to eat.” 

Sherlock got up very slowly and John became really worried. Sherlock had come back from the dead just three months ago and he was like a slow-motion film camera. 

At first, John was angry; however, when Sherlock explained the whole story about the snipers and what had happened to him by Moran’s hand, he had forgiven Sherlock. In three months John watched as their relationship bloomed. 

There were some things that John was worried about with him. Sherlock was withdrawn. Panic attacks were a daily occurrence and the stimming was more severe. He had spoken with Mycroft about this and they had both agreed that Sherlock needed professional help. However, Sherlock was so stubborn. 

Sherlock’s language and communication were impaired, too. Mycroft was against John having a relationship with Sherlock, however, John could not agree. He loved Sherlock a lot even if sometimes he felt as though he was Sherlock’s carer rather than his lover. 

Like today, Sherlock wasn’t wearing any clothing except for a dressing gown and underwear. He didn’t seem to have any interest in food either. “You want to eat?”

“No, I don’t,” Sherlock said simply.

“Come on, Sherlock, you can’t drink tea all day,” John said. “What do you want to eat? I’ll get you anything.”

Sherlock looked at him and thought about what he was proposing. “I really don’t want to eat,” he said flatly. John placed his hand on Sherlock's head. “I am fine,” he said as he batted his hand away. 

“Please tell me why you don’t want to eat,” John said and as soon as he had said it, he wanted to take it back; Sherlock flinched with the tone of his voice. “Sorry, love.” John hugged Sherlock firmly. “You want a smoothie?”

Sherlock nodded and John was relieved. Sherlock made his way to their bedroom while John made him a strawberry smoothie with bananas and a multivitamin. “Sherlock, your smoothie is here.” 

Sherlock didn’t reply; John went to their bedroom to witness a panic attack. Sherlock was hyperventilating, a waking nightmare of sorts. John gathered Sherlock in his arms. “Sherlock.” His love was in the corner, rocking back and forth. “I am here, Sherlock. You’re safe,” John said as he crouched down next to him. 

After almost an hour, Sherlock calmed. However, he was exhausted. John half-drag half-carried Sherlock from the floor to their bed. John decided to fix the smoothie in a container for whenever Sherlock wanted it. Then, he collapsed in their bed, wrapping his body around Sherlock’s back. “Sherlock, I love you so much.” With that, he fell asleep.

John woke up a couple of hours later; it was dark now. Sherlock was curled up next to him. He petted Sherlock’s hair. He remembered a time not too long ago when he and Sherlock were dealing with The Woman and he remembered being jealous of her. That was when he had realised that he loved the man sleeping next to him. He checked the time and stood up, gingerly climbing out of bed. 

Sherlock woke with a start. “Sherlock?” John whispered. “You awake?”

“Yes, I am. What time is it, John?” he asked, standing up. 

“It’s ten-twenty, love, why? Are you hungry?" John asked, looking at Sherlock expectantly. 

“Could I have my smoothie from earlier, John?”

“Yes, you can have your smoothie,” John said. He got up to retrieve the smoothie. As he opened the fridge, he frowned; he missed Sherlock’s experiments. His partner hadn’t experimented since his return six months ago.

He entered the room; Sherlock was texting his brother by the looks of him. “Sherlock? Here is your smoothie.”

Sherlock looked back and forth between his phone and the drink. He picked up his drink and sipped it, nodding his head affirmatively. 

John slid down next to him on the bed. “I know,” said John grinning. After a minute, John asked gently, “What did Mycroft want?”

“We have a case, John,” Sherlock said between sips. 

John was surprised. Sherlock taking Mycroft’s cases? “Sherlock, are you feeling alright, love?” He put his hand on Sherlock’s head; Sherlock swatted it away. 

Sherlock looked at him angrily. “When I was gone, I owed Mycroft a favour so…” Sherlock's voice trailed off when he saw the anger in John’s eyes. “John?” Sherlock asked, confused as to the cause.

“Oh, Sherlock, you duff git,” John said. “I’m not angry with you - I'm angry with your brother.” 

“We will be meeting him here tomorrow..” 

“Sherlock!” John said in shock as Sherlock burrowed his head into the mattress and promptly fell asleep. John sighed and gave Sherlock’s body a tight squeeze. “Good night, love.”

The next morning, John woke up to find their bed cold and empty. He padded outside to see Sherlock and Mycroft talking amicably. It was incongruous to what he knew about the brothers' relationship. John took a double-take. They seemed fine until Mycroft said, “Sherlock, it’s in America.”

Sherlock froze. “No,” he said almost angrily. Sherlock was rocking back and forth. 

John made his presence known. He looked at Mycroft and said, “Get out of my flat.” in his best captain’s voice. 

“No. I am not leaving, Dr Watson,” Mycroft said stubbornly standing in 221B’s living room.

Sherlock was agitatedly rocking on the balls of his feet. John thought he looked like a man in deep trouble, and all because his brother had said something shitty. “Sherlock,” John said, catching Sherlock’s eye. Sherlock who didn’t have good eye contact at the best of times averted his eyes. 

“John, could you help me here? Anthea’s son was with his father the summer he was supposed to be in New York,” Mycroft said, looking at his brother but talking to John. “However, a couple of days ago, he disappeared.”

“What do you mean?” John asked as he dragged Sherlock to sit down. “He just disappeared?”

Sherlock sighed and interjected, “Carter’s missing?” 

“Yes. So, you know why I am here, brother mine?” Mycroft said with the poshest, condescending voice. “I want you to help find him in America.”

John saw as Sherlock's body tensed. “Sherlock?”

“He doesn’t want to ride in an aeroplane,” Mycroft said condescendingly. 

Sherlock looked annoyed at his brother and hissed, “The airport is noisy.” 

“Yes, I know,” said Mycroft. He directed his statement at John. “Mummy and father always followed his whims on where to go on holiday.”

John looked at the younger Holmes brother. “It’s not his fault," he shouted suddenly. “He has AUTISM.” Beside John, Sherlock glared. 

John knew that Sherlock was a little bit skittish about his autism. His partner didn’t want people to know he had an ASD. Sherlock angrily went to their bedroom. 

Mycroft raised his elegant eyebrow. “I thought he was over that.” 

John, curiosity evident now, asked, “Did something like this happen when he was younger?”

“Do you think Sherlock wants you to know?” 

John remembered Mycroft telling him in no uncertain terms that Sherlock had Autism. “Well, no.” 

“Do you know why that is?” Mycroft asked with thinly veiled annoyance. “Do you think he wants me to tell you?” The elder Holmes asked and John shook his head. 

“No, I guess not,” John said, and he remembered an article he had read a while back about families never telling their children they had autism. “Did your parents tell him he had autism?”

“No." Mycroft shook his head. “He one day overheard them talking about him.” He checked his watch, a clear signal he wanted to leave. “John, get him to go,” he said. 

After Mycroft left, John went to talk to his partner. He went to their bedroom but to his surprise Sherlock was gone. He went upstairs to his former bedroom. Sherlock was not there. 

John, now worried, went down to Mrs Hudson’s flat. He knocked at her door. “Hi, Mrs Hudson, have you seen Sherlock?” 

Mrs Hudson, who was sitting in her chair watching telly, looked at him. “Oh, John, dear, Sherlock is in C.” When Sherlock first came back to London, 221C was renovated by Mycroft. 

John went downstairs to Sherlock’s lab. He saw him in the desk chair, arms wrapped around his legs, humming a discordant tune. “Sherlock,” John said in a whisper.

Sherlock looked at him down his nose. John could see the perfectly crafted facade Sherlock gave him. He crouched at Sherlock's left side.

Sherlock spoke first in a furious tone, “No.” He slightly shoved him.

“What?” 

“I won’t hear sorry, John. For all I know you and Mycroft are planning to put me in a group home.”

“What? Come again?” John asked, surprise and a little bit of anger creeping in his voice. He couldn’t believe what Sherlock was saying. 

“My parents threatened to put me in a group home when I was younger,” Sherlock said. 

‘Why?” Sherlock or Mycroft never talked about their parents. John never understood why. 

“Because I have Autism.,” Sherlock shouted the last word in frustration and anger was obvious in his tone. He was now rocking back and forth. 

John gave Sherlock a tight hug. “I would never put you in a home.” 

“But Mycroft?” 

“He won’t, love. I know he is your brother, but over my dead body you would be put in a group home,” John said. “One question, Sherlock, when did the conversation occur?” 

Sherlock looked at him flatly. “What?” he asked, the indignation visible in his face. 

“When did you discover you have Autism?” John asked, holding Sherlock’s wavering gaze. 

Sherlock took a deep breath and clenched his teeth. “I was eleven. My mother was telling my dad that she would be looking for me to not live independently with a roommate because I have Aspergers.”

John thought about his words. “Sherlock, you know I love you. However, I think your parents are sort of right,” he said and Sherlock started to stand up. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock went upstairs, but when John followed him up Sherlock was gone. “JOHN!” Mrs Hudson looked up at him. “Sherlock went in the direction of Regent’s Park. He’s quite angry.”

There was a car outside, a black Mercedes parked. "Dr Watson?” said Mycroft, looking at John intently. “Sherlock is in Regent's park.” John climbed into the car.

Two minutes later, John was out of the car, consoling Sherlock. This thing was so weird. In their past life, Sherlock wouldn’t have been seen like this - crying on the pavement because John had said something to him. 

“I am sorry, Sherlock,” John said after a long while. 

Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief, then said, “I will admit I have Autism if you admit our relationship to NSY, to the surgery, your army mates and to your mother and Harry.” 

John was taken aback. Sherlock had punched him in the gut. “Sherlock, I can’t,” he said and a dash of regret coloured his voice.

“Why?”

John wanted to scream in frustration. “I can’t, I just can’t. I just admitted I love you.” 

“Why?” Sherlock asked. "There’s nothing wrong with being gay; I knew I was gay before I knew I had autism.”

But, before John could reply, Sherlock spotted his brother hovering around. “Mycroft is in the vicinity," the detective said coolly. 

Sure enough, Mycroft showed up in John’s periphery. John looked at Mycroft and gave an annoyed sigh. “You conversed?” Mycroft asked with a smirk. 

“None of your bloody business, Mycroft,” Sherlock said.

“Anthea just got a communiqué with Carter,” Mycroft said. He produced a tablet from seemingly nowhere and gave it to Sherlock.

Sherlock, upon receiving the tablet, began to read. Sherlock sighed. “It’s a Caesar cypher, Mycroft,” he said to form where he was seated on the pavement in the darkening day. “Solve it,” he said and thrust the tablet to Mycroft.

Mycroft got a hold of the tablet. “I’ve already solved it; I am telling you that he made communiqué.”

Sherlock was now irritated. He faced his brother and squared up. “Why did you even?…” he snapped looking at Mycroft with some mirth. 

Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock, you know, Carter is my…. offspring,” Mycroft said. 

John glanced at Mycroft. “You have a kid,” John said to the elder Holmes brother with a little mirth as if he didn’t believe the situation.

“No,” said Sherlock. “It’s not his kid per se; it’s Anthea’s with her ex-husband. Mycroft donated sperm because her husband has had testicular cancer.” 

“Be that as it may,” Mycroft chimed in, “he is still family and a child. He had been missing for a while according to this missive.” 

John looked towards Sherlock. “We'll be in touch, Mycroft,” John said because Sherlock had clearly lost his words again. According to Ella, this was a side effect of the torture he endured while he was away.

“All right,” Mycroft sighed and walked away.

After a few moments, Sherlock spoke. "I don’t want to go on a plane. That was the point here.”

“Sherlock." John wrapped his arm about Sherlock’s shoulder. “Do you not want to go on a plane because the airport is noisy or are you frightened about the plane ride?” 

Sherlock shrugged. “Sorta both,” the detective said. “I have Sensory Processing Disorder, John.” 

“I know, love. I know.” John hugged Sherlock and nuzzled his nose in the detective’s hair. “It's getting dark, Sherlock.” John stood up and gave his arm for Sherlock to take. The detective took the preferred hand. 

They walked from the park and were halfway to Baker Street when Lestrade rolled down his car window. “John, Sherlock, I need to talk to you about the money laundering case.” 

“Yes, we’re going home, Greg,” said John, looking at Sherlock who nodded. “You tired, Sherlock?” John asked. 

Sherlock nodded his head. 

“I just had lunch with your brother,” said Greg and John saw Sherlock flinch. Greg noticed it too. “What’s wrong?”

John wanted Sherlock to answer, but Greg had asked nicely so he answered. “He and Mycroft had an argument.”

“Ah…” Greg said. Two minutes later, they were in Baker Street and the DI was following them up.


	2. Chapter 2

—————————————

John knew that because of the day they had to have, Sherlock would be plagued with nightmares. However, it was still disappointing to see him that way. The first time it happened was when they had fallen asleep on the sofa; Sherlock woke up with a start, gasping for breath. They moved to the bed after that.

The second time it happened was in the early morning. John hadn’t slept when Sherlock began to stir. What he was saying shook John to his core.

“Don’t kill John,” Sherlock whispered, looking at the far wall for some enemy he could see only in the depths of his vast mind.

John froze, breathing shallowly. It felt as though he was being spliced in half with those words. “Sherlock?” Knowing his reaction during, John felt guilty. 

When Sherlock had first come back to London, John hadn’t reacted very well. He had implied that he had moved on and punched Sherlock to boot. Sherlock had just taken it. John noticed Sherlock was shaking while taking each punch with grace. “John,” he had said, “I am sorry; let me explain.” He let Sherlock explain about Moriarty and Moran. John had felt even more guilty about the punches he had pulled. 

Sherlock forgave him. As he soothed his lover, he wondered about the love Sherlock had in him. Sherlock’s love for him was vast and true. How could people like Donovan and Anderson think him a psychopath for liking murders? The answer was completely false and Sherlock was not correcting them. It was so mind-boggling. He made a mental note to tell them off.

Sherlock had fallen asleep in his arms again. John followed him to sleep.

John woke up a couple of hours later to his bed cold and Sherlock playing his violin. It was Bach: a dramatic Sonata in the key of G major. John knew because Sherlock had been teaching him about classical music. 

John came up to Sherlock and kissed his lips. Sherlock sighed contentedly. They were kissing when someone cleared their throat. “Mycroft, what a timing!” John said angrily.

“Dr Watson?" Mycroft said with a raised eyebrow. 

“What? Why are you here, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, annoyed. 

“Sherlock, we lost connection with him.” The detective stood, pacing around.

“You put a microchip into him?” John asked, the indignation obvious in his tone. 

“No, I didn’t put a chip on him, John,” Mycroft said. His face flashed momentarily with something akin to anger, before schooling his face into a frown. “Anthea had put a camera on him. She made him swallow a pill; she was already suspicious. Carter told her that Peter wanted to bring him to a camp in Utah or somewhere in the wild west. That was three days before Carter left for the summer.”

“You didn’t tell us that,” Sherlock said, pacing back and forth. 

“He hasn’t passed it yet?” John asked. 

“No, and that is worrying,” Mycroft said. “He hasn’t eaten in a while.”

Sherlock sighed, sounding resigned. “I don’t want to go; however it’s for someone I care about so I will go.” 

John scrunched his face in worry. “You don’t have to go, Sherlock," John said.

“John, I know, especially for him.” He turned to Mycroft, giving him a dirty look. “However, Carter is a friend of my family and I don’t want any harm to come to him.” He looked at John.

Mycroft gave him a firm smile. Sherlock knew how important this was for his brother; he smiled back. 

John was practical though. “What time is the flight?”

“Five thirty today. You’ll be at John F. Kennedy airport by twelve,” Mycroft said. “At Salt Lake Airport by five and ten local time.”

“What’s the condition at Heathrow at that time? Is it busy?” John asked, looking at Sherlock who glared at him.

Mycroft just smiled. ”Yes, it will be clear today.”

Sherlock glared some more at Mycroft and John. “I don’t need that,” he told John sotto voce.

John sighed. “It’s okay to show weakness, Sherlock, no one will know.” The detective shoved John. “Ouch, it’s true though, no one would care, love, okay.”

“No, but I care.”

“Why?” But before Sherlock could answer Mycroft coughed.

“Excuse me, John. Brother, I have to go; Michael will contact you,” Mycroft said. He got his umbrella and left.

“Where are we?” John asked but, of course, Sherlock didn’t understand.

“Here in Baker Street.” 

John laughed. “Geez, Sherlock. I meant in our conversation. Ah…” John remembered. “Why do you care what other people think of you. Usually you don’t.” 

Sherlock breathed a sigh of frustration and sat in his armchair. “It's proof I can’t manage on my own.”

“To whom does it prove?” John asked, sitting on Sherlock's lap while kissing his lips chastely. 

“To my parents. Mummy had a group home online for me in Cornwall.”

“You’re an adult, Sherlock.”

“Not according to the law. During my hospitalisation, I was sectioned and they still have me under that.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “What?” John said, kissing Sherlock’s cheeks. “You've got to be kidding me, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. “Nope.” He popped the ‘p’. “I am not kidding, John.”

“I will talk to Mycroft to leave the sectioning…”

“Why? Because you're shagging me?” Sherlock hissed. 

John kissed Sherlock’s lips again. “I think you’re a capable adult.”

“Do you really think that?”

“Of course, love, of course.” John made a mental note to talk to Mycroft about Sherlock’s sectioning. 

John beamed at Sherlock; they sat in companionable silence until John tagged at Sherlock’s arm. “We need to go to pack for America.” Sherlock followed him inside their bedroom. 

The packing was a little trying to say the least; Sherlock wanted to bring things with him like a pillow, ridiculous. John just shrugged. They packed until lunchtime. John was hungry. Mrs Hudson brought them fish and chips. 

At two in the afternoon, John left to talk with Mycroft about Sherlock’s guardianship. He went to the Diogenes Club signing to the receptionist desk. As soon as he was let inside he went in front of Mycroft and spat. “You bastard, Mycroft. He is an adult so treat him as such.”

Mycroft just looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “You know, John, because of the ASD and his drug use he needed to be sectioned and after that mummy and I thought that he would need assistance for the rest of his life.” Mycroft sighed. 

“And now, I am sorry,” the amalgamation of the ‘British Government’ said, lost for words.

“Change his status, Mycroft, or I’m not going anywhere,” John said and left the office to meet Sherlock who was at the chemist.

When he got there, he saw Sherlock was playing with his wristwatch, twisting it back and forth in his hand like rubber. “Sherlock,” he said looking at his partner. “You okay?” He touched Sherlock’s arm.

“You need to take the Valium, Sherlock,” John told Sherlock while they were in the car headed to the airport. 

As soon as they were inside the airport Sherlock became agitated. He was wearing noise-cancelling headphones. The airport wasn’t that busy. “You okay, Sherlock?" John asked. 

John noticed that Sherlock was clenching his fist so hard that he had made it bleed. It was summer so they hadn’t bothered with Sherlock’s gloves. “Sherlock, you’re bleeding, Jesus Christ,” he said, checking the hand.

“I…. it’s obvious. I’m not blind,” Sherlock drawled looking through him and glaring at airport police. It was now very obvious to John. Sherlock hated the fuss of the airport. Sherlock was stymied on the floor. 

“Sherlock, are you okay?”

“I am clearly not. I can’t breathe; there are too many people, John.”

John saw people were staring at him, pitying expressions on their faces. “Okay, don’t look at him, please.” 

“Is that Sherlock Holmes,” people murmured and Sherlock looked ashamed. 

There weren’t even in New York or Salt Lake and Sherlock was having a meltdown. What about the plane? John knew Mycroft had chartered a plane - two planes - one from Heathrow to JFK and then they would be in New York in a couple of hours and then they would go from New York to Salt Lake Airport.

He couldn't imagine Sherlock finding out about his meltdown being on the tabloids. They needed to quiet this particular blunder. John made a mental note to call Mycroft about what to do about them.

One hour later, Sherlock and John were on the plane. Sherlock was shaking in nervous anticipation. Had he taken a Valium? “Sherlock, have you taken the med I gave you?”

“No,” Sherlock said.

“That was for anxiety, you git,” John said, looking at Sherlock half angry and half amused. “Why are you so intelligent yet stupid?” John asked rhetorically.

Sherlock, who lacked the skills to recognise a rhetorical question answered with, “It is a little incongruent to thinking.”

“It was rhetorical, Sherlock,” John said.

They sat in silence until a vicious turbulence shook the plane. Sherlock was shaking and panicking; John crouched down near Sherlock’s chair. “Calm down, Sherlock.” 

“I can’t calm down if the plane is headed into the Atlantic ocean,” Sherlock said. “We should drive, from New York to Salt Lake.”

John sighed. He didn’t say a word about driving. “I have Lorazepam tablets, here, want some?”

Sherlock looked piteously. “I can’t take that; I had a bad reaction to Lorazepam in rehab," Sherlock said, playing with his wristwatch.

John sighed, looking at his own watch. “We're only three hours in. Take the Valium, love. I will figure something out. I promise.”

Sherlock nodded and took the tablet from John’s hand. “I don’t like anti-anxiety drugs, John.” Sherlock gave a weak protest but took the pill anyway.

An attendant came from the back of the plane and gave John a glass of water. John took the glass from the attendant’s hand and handed the glass to his partner. Sherlock took it. 

John gave him a smile. Sherlock was asleep. “I love you, Sherlock.” He took Sherlock’s hand and fell asleep as well. 

John woke up to the attendant shaking his shoulder. “We are here, Dr Watson. Welcome to America.” 

Sherlock was still asleep; John put Sherlock’s seatbelt on. His partner stirred. “John?” Sherlock said, falling back asleep. 

A couple of minutes later, the plane landed. He held Sherlock’s hand in his, rubbing circular motions into his palm. 

“We’re here, love, in New York, John F. Kennedy airport,” said John, looking at Sherlock worriedly. “You’re high, Sherlock.” John looked towards his lover and requested for a wheelchair.

The attendant nodded while Sherlock glowered at him. John and the attendant helped Sherlock into the chair. He rolled the chair inside of the airport.

The process of getting their Visas went easily. However, as soon as Sherlock was touched by a TSA agent, he blew a gasket. He ran, making John and the agent follow him out. John sighed, Sherlock had been very listless earlier. 

In the end, TSA had arrested Sherlock for not cooperating with the agent. John had to explain very swiftly and quietly that Sherlock had Autism, and was a torture survivor. 

It was nearing morning when they got out of the airport. John had called Mycroft earlier while Sherlock was in custody. Mycroft wasn’t happy about the whole situation, but John had to insist. He told him that they would be taking the plane and that they would go from New York to Springfield after they had rested in Mycroft’s Manhattan flat. Then they would sleep in their rental car. 

After getting their rental, they went to Mycroft’s flat. John wanted to go to the bedroom and sleep. However, Sherlock had different plans. Turning on his laptop, Sherlock researched wilderness camp. 

When John woke up at noon, he found Sherlock asleep with his laptop on his lap, looking adorable with his high cheekbones sticking from his face. John touched Sherlock’s cheek.

After a while, John whispered, “I love you, but we need to get up, if we want to be in Illinois at a decent hour.” He shook Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock stirred and after a minute fully woke up. “Let’s go.” They packed the laptop and the toiletries. They stopped to eat at a Subway in New Jersey. John drove because of the lingering effects of the Valium in Sherlock’s system. 

—————————————


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thank you to my bata Ilikestopwatches

—————————————

John and Sherlock were one hour into the drive. Pennsylvania was annoyingly dull; they were in the countryside when Sherlock started to show some signs of boredom. 

He was jiggling his foot and playing with the hem of the coat he would wear even if the day was hot. John looked at his partner worriedly as the long and winding road went on and on.

“Okay, Sherlock, your boredom is palpable here,” John said from the driver's seat of their rental car. 

Sherlock sighed in a resigned tone. “My brain is rotting here, John. I am under-stimulated.”

John laughed. “Oh, of course." Then he said, “Let’s play twenty questions.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but nodded. “What?”

John was still laughing at him. “Do you really not know what twenty questions is, Sherlock?” he teased. 

Sherlock looked affronted. “Yes, I know twenty questions. I’m not an idiot, John.” 

“Shall we begin?” John asked and Sherlock nodded; he turned a key to the intersection. “Let’s play rock, paper, scissors,” John said. 

Sherlock looked indignant. “What?”

“I said,” John grinned, “let’s play rock, paper, scissors to determine who’ll go first…” 

“I know how to play that, John,” Sherlock said indignantly. “However, it's for imbeciles.

John rolled his eyes. “Oh come on, Sherlock.” He stuck out his right hand to the gear stick and clenched his hand into a fist. “Rock, paper, scissors,” John said. 

Sherlock still looked appalled, but he complied. He put up his hand to play. John opened his hand up and Sherlock copied him. They laughed. “Don’t copy me,” they both said in unison. Another try brought John to win. 

Sherlock pouted but didn't say anything.

John thought for a while. “Okay, I have it already.”

“Is it a person?” Sherlock asked. 

John moved the gear stick from four to five. “No."

“Is it an event?" Sherlock asked, tap, tap, tapping his fingers on his jean clad leg.

“No…” John’s voice changed.

“Is it scientific?”

John laughed. “You could say that.”

“So, it’s faux science?”

John saw the cogs turn in Sherlock’s mind. “No,” John said, quiet and reserved. 

“Conversion therapy?” Sherlock asked, looking at a middle distance.

“How do you know, love?”

“I know that this game is usually played by friends, or partners, to tell the partner about a difficult topic.” Sherlock looked up. “I know that coming out was hard for you, John. So, I know you were raised in the church. You went to church every week and your parents are both devout Christians. So, how old were you, then, fourteen?”

John rubbed his palm on the wheel. “Yes, I was fourteen years old; Dad found me jacking off with a picture of Richard Burton.” John’s eyes were wistful. “He was so handsome.”

Sherlock waved his hand. “John, what happened?” 

John’s gripped the steering wheel harder. “He… beat me… after which I was put into a conversion camp in Norfolk.”

Sherlock looked contemplative; he was drumming his left hand on the door handle. “John, you know that ABA and conversion therapy are basically the same. They are based on behaviourism.”

John laughed. “You know behaviourism?” 

“I went to Cambridge, John,” Sherlock said. 

John overtook a truck. “I just thought you deleted information about psychology.”

“I needed to fight Mummy and Mycroft on the sectioning,” Sherlock admitted.

The statement made John cringe. They were riding in companionable silence when Sherlock asked, “Would you rather not be with me because even though I love you dearly, I could let you go.” Sherlock's eyes were clearly glistening with tears.

“Oh, Sherlock, I love you," John said; his fingers laced into Sherlock’s hand. “I won’t ever leave you, love.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Sherlock said. 

They took their time through the interstate. Sherlock was humming and rocking, while John drove. 

The spell ended near Columbus when Sherlock tapped him three times. He turned and Sherlock was signing BSL for food. 

“We can stop for food if you want. I will exit near Akron.” John grasped Sherlock’s hand. “Sherlock, I can’t see the side mirror, stop rocking for a sec.” Sherlock ceased the rocking.

“I am bored, John,” Sherlock whined. “Can I have your phone?” 

“You have your phone,” protested John even though his partner was holding the phone already.  
“My phone’s battery is dead,” said Sherlock. 

“Okay,” agreed John. “Sherlock, check if there is a fast food restaurant nearby.” Sherlock was playing chess on his phone. 

John saw as Sherlock closed the application and went to Google Maps. “We are ten minutes away from a McDonald’s. I don’t like McDonalds, John; you know that,” Sherlock whined. 

“Okay, check the map for Pizza hut, or you could do Domino’s right?”

Sherlock gave a sigh. "Yes.” He typed Domino’s into the app's search bar. “There is one up north.”

The two drove in comfortable silence, with John holding Sherlock’s hand in his. When they got to the restaurant, it was noisy, full and annoying. 

John checked his smart watch. “It’s seven in the evening,” he told Sherlock. “You want to go elsewhere?”

Sherlock shook his head. “We can just eat it in the car, John.”

Sherlock went back to their rental car, while John stood in the queue and ordered some cheese sticks and soda for him and Sherlock. His mind wandered to his partner. Was Sherlock okay with being in the back of a car in the middle of nowhere in America. 

John returned to the car to see three huge burly men punching Sherlock. They were laughing at him. He met Sherlock’s gaze in the dim lighting of the parking lot; his partner looked pleadingly at him.

John dropped his goods on the ground and said in a false American accent. “Hey?” 

The men looked at him. “This guy was a freak, autistic. Rocking inside the car,” one of the men said and the other two nodded their heads. 

Without thinking, John pulled out his illegal firearm and pointed it at the guy. “Hey,” John shouted. Sherlock was struggling beneath the three people. “Let him out or I will shoot you.”

The leader of the gang looked at John and took his hands off of Sherlock. The two other guys scattered as well. He lifted his goods off the ground, relieved that they weren’t soaked. “Are you okay, Sherlock?” he asked. “Are you hurt, love?” 

Sherlock looked at John dazed. He was sitting on the ground, unresponsive. “Sherlock, are you okay?” John repeated. “Sherlock?” 

Sherlock made eye contact for a bit. “John, let’s go. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But…” John said but Sherlock stood up. “Can I see your face, love?” Sherlock, who was facing the car door, looked at his nose and shook his head. “No, Sherlock, I am looking at your face.” John said in his captain’s voice.

Sherlock turned to face John. What John saw was a gut churning image. Sherlock’s face was beginning to bloom with black and purple bruises. They had done a number on him. 

“What on earth happened?” John asked. “I was just out for a little over ten minutes.” Sherlock didn’t answer, obviously he had gone non-verbal. John was not surprised. “I need you to sign or nod your head if you can hear me.”

Sherlock nodded his head.

John took a deep breath. “Sherlock, did they punch you?”

Sherlock nodded.  
John was shaking in anger. “Doyou think you have a concussion? Are you dizzy?” Sherlock was growing a bit paler by now. “Sherlock?”

It wasn't until he had dialed 999 three times that he remembered he was in America. He dialed the appropriate number.

“Hello, 911, what’s your emergency?”

“My partner had been attacked. Please come. He’s semiconscious. I am a doctor, please help…” Then Sherlock batted his phone away. 

“No, I am fine,” Sherlock told the dispatcher. He was swaying a bit.

“Sherlock, no.” 

“No, I am fine, John.”

“Sherlock. You. Are Going. To. Hospital,” John said over-enunciating the words.

“No, we can’t,” Sherlock said.

“Why not?” John asked, blocking the car door. “Tell me, love.”

Sherlock sighed disconcertingly. “My head would just hurt more in the hospital.The lighting and the noise would be annoying.”

John thought for a bit. If they went to the hospital it would be much harder for Sherlock to sleep and also they had a child to rescue. John nodded reluctantly. “But if your symptoms….”

“Yes, I would go,” Sherlock said. 

John got their cold food from the ground and went to Sherlock's side and assisted Sherlock back into the car. He settled Sherlock into the back of the car. 

They drove to the nearest hotel in Columbus, Ohio. John didn’t like that they were still far from Springfield, Illinois. However, they were both tired and annoyingly so.

As they were driving, he looked at Sherlock. He had so much love for him that it hurt. He remembered watching Sherlock sleep in Baskerville - that was the first instance he knew he loved Sherlock. 

They arrived at a Hilton hotel near downtown Columbus. He hesitated when waking Sherlock up. “Sherlock, we're here at the hotel,” John said.

Sherlock stirred. John thanked the heavens that Sherlock had woken.  
“Mmmm,” Sherlock mumbled.

“We're here, love.”

“Here where?” Sherlock asked, a bit disoriented. 

John didn’t like the question coming from the man’s mouth. “Sherlock, do you know where you are?” he asked worriedly. 

“London,” Sherlock said, smirking.

John recognised being played by Sherlock Holmes. He wanted to punch Sherlock, but instead he hugged him. “You git,” he told Sherlock as soon he let go of Sherlock. “Sherlock, I am serious.”

Sherlock nodded his head. “I am fine, John. I am good.”

John nodded and led Sherlock to the front desk. The hotel had an underground parking space. Sherlock swayed a little. “I think we need to go to the hospital.”

Sherlock huffed. “I don’t need to go to hospital, John.”

“Why?”

“It's noisy and also they won’t be able to help me there,” Sherlock said, looking at him pleadingly.

“Okay, Sherlock, I know, but they could scan your head,” said John looking at Sherlock apprehensively.

“No,” Sherlock sighed. “There. Is. Nothing. Wrong. With. Me,” he said forcefully. “I am not going to be used by you doctors again.” He strode off to the hotel.

John flinched, frozen by Sherlock’s words. There was a lot of meaning in what he said. However, before he could parcel his words, Sherlock bolted. “Sherlock,” John followed Sherlock inside the hotel. 

He found Sherlock inside the hotel alcove, lost in thought and blinking rapidly. John thought he was having a seizure but he wasn't. Sherlock did that sometimes, blink when the light was bothering him.

“Sherlock,” he whispered soundlessly because if Sherlock did the blinking thing he was very sensitive. “Come on, I promise you. Your brother or mother aren’t here. They would never know.”

“Never,” Sherlock said, looking more pathetic than normal. “Promise?”

John wanted to cry, for the man he loved was scared of doctors who used their scientific knowledge to experiment on Sherlock. The most amazing man in the whole world. “I promise, love,” he told Sherlock, whispering in his ear. 

They headed to a twenty-four hour Urgent Care office. Sherlock was seen right away by a doctor in her mid-30’s. “He needs an x-ray of the head, Dr. Watson,” the Nurse Practitioner said. She was talking to John, after John had told her Sherlock had Autism. 

Sherlock was looking at her, his eyes murderous. “I could hear that,” he said. “OYou’re not a real doctor. You didn’t finish Medical School because-” He narrowed his eyes. “You were caught plagiarising a friend’s paper.” 

She looked at Sherlock. “You need an x-ray,” she said, rolling her eyes. 

“Oh, really,” Sherlock huffed.

She looked at John with pity, as if to say, 'why are you putting up with this'.

“Sherlock,” John said, not looking at the nurse. “Let’s go." 

Sherlock hopped from the bed to the floor with surprising ease. 

“I need to pay this stupid surgery,” John said with a huff.

They paid the fee and left.

——————————————————


	4. Chapter 4

——————————————————

A couple of hours later, John and Sherlock sat in their hotel room drinking wine and decidedly not talking to each other after the day they’d had. Sherlock fell asleep promptly and John, not really wanting to sleep, sat deep in thought. 

He was thinking about Sherlock. He was thinking about six months ago and this intimacy, not just the physical stuff but also the quiet times that he and Sherlock would spend time together. It was an honour to have him as his partner. Sherlock was incredible company.

John sighed and went to the bathroom to get ready for bed. 

The next morning, when John woke Sherlock up, it was already three. He’d checked on Sherlock’s concussion three times; he was all fine. However, they needed to get going if they wished to be in Denver by night time.

“Sherlock, love, wake up. We need to go,” he said, shaking Sherlock’s shoulder. 

Sherlock woke up with a start however when he saw John he relaxed minisculely. “John,” he said standing up. “Let’s go.” 

Sherlock took a shower and John gathered their meagre belongings. He helped Sherlock pack his things. They went to a convenience store for drinks and some snacks. 

John found out that Sherlock hated the smell inside of 7eleven’s. It was a little musty and icky and as soon as Sherlock was inside he was outside. John watched Sherlock pacing in the parking lot. 

After paying for his goods, John beckoned to Sherlock from inside the car and they left. 

The day was just starting; the sun rising in the east. Sherlock was asleep in the rental car. John drove. It was like driving to ends except there was no end in sight. It reminded him of the Beatles song, ‘The Long And Winding Road’. 

By six in the morning, they were nearing the border of Indiana and Illinois. Next to him, Sherlock was waking up. “Where are we?” Sherlock asked.

“Nearing Illinois,” John answered. “Why, are you hungry?” 

Sherlock shook his head but didn’t answer. However, he grabbed a soda can from the plastic bag. He abruptly opened the can and took a swig. 

The drive was silent, to his right Sherlock was deep in his mind palace. “What was it like in a conversion camp, John?” Sherlock asked John an hour and a half later.

John shifted gears before answering Sherlock with a shrug. “There is nothing more to tell. I told you it all earlier,” said John, glancing at his partner. 

“I know it’s difficult, John but I think it could help you. What did they tell you in the church or office or wherever it was?’ Sherlock said, uncomfortable with the sentiment of it. 

John took a deep breath. “As I told you yesterday, I was thirteen years old when I was seen by my father jerking off with a picture of an actor who was really cute. Harry, my sister, came out that year. It just piled up, I guess. He brought me to Norfolk the next day with bruises still fresh.”  
Sherlock picked up John’s right hand which was resting on the shift stick and kissed it. John smiled sadly.

“It was this old abandoned boarding school. You know, Sherlock, what the hardest part was?” he asked, laughing bitterly. “They employ a lot of pseudoscience with children.”

“Did they beat you, punish you physically?” Sherlock asked, looking at him.

John wanted to cry; he wanted to curl up in his seat and cry. He hadn’t talked about this, not even with his therapist. “Yes, they used such methods for compliances purposes. When you complied 

Sherlock was looking out of the car window. “As if it wasn’t the story of my life,” he mumbled.

John nodded. They were silent for a long time then he asked, “How was ABA growing up?” If Sherlock knew about camp, then John could ask him about it.

Sherlock stilled his shaking hands while John overtook a truck. He heaved a deep breath. “What are your questions, John?” Sherlock asked, not looking at him.

John knew that Sherlock needed to think about an answer to a question before answering it. “I know you hated it there, why? What was wrong with ABA? Sherlock, tell me about the therapist.” 

Sherlock was quiet for a whole hour and John hadn’t expected anymore. The only sound in the car was Sherlock tapping his left hand on the armrest.

John was startled by his words. “They hurt me,” Sherlock said in almost a childlike voice. 

“What did they do, Sherlock?”

Sherlock tapped his fingers with his other hand. “They would tap my hands hard, if I didn’t listen to them.”

No wonder you hated us, the medical field; that is the reason you don’t go to hospital more often. John thought, as he shifted the car from gear one to two. “I didn’t know,” John said in an apologetic tone. “What did your day consist of?”

“When I was younger I did almost thirty hours a week. That would be five hours a day, after school. The clinic was tedious at best and hateful at worst. ABA highlights the worst things about a person. When I was 14 years old, mummy brought me to my ‘maintenance appointment’," Sherlock said. “I was assaulted by a therapist.” 

“Oh my God, Sherlock. I didn’t know,” John said, picking up Sherlock’s hand and kissing it. “I am sorry.” 

Sherlock sighed. “Don’t be, John. I deleted it from the mind palace or I tried to, but alas I could never delete it.”

“No, of course not.” John had wondered since the first time how could Sherlock be intimate with him. Sherlock wanted to see John when they had sex. They sat there in tense awkward silence until it was lunchtime. 

They stopped at a burger joint in St. Luis, Missouri. It was lunch hour in the middle of town. The ambient sound of the city was too much for Sherlock’s nerves. He was stimming, flicking the table with his fingers while John ordered food. 

As their food came, Sherlock asked the waiter for a metal fork and knife. The waiter gave him plastic ones. Sherlock was very annoyed; he stood and paced. 

John looked apologetic. “He doesn’t like plastic utensils,” he said. John hoped he would bring a fork and knife for Sherlock. He turned to Sherlock, and said, “Don’t be unreasonable, Sherlock. Eat with your hands instead. You eat your chips with your hands.”

Sherlock sighed, a tad uncomfortable with the situation. “I don’t like eating with my hands, and you know it, John,” Sherlock said a bit petulantly.

John sighed as well. He thought for a moment and said, “Okay, Sherlock.”” He put a placating hand on his arm. “I will cut your food up for you and you can pick it up bite size with your fingers. Then we can go to the store and buy you utensils, okay?”

Sherlock halted his pace and thought about it for a moment. He nodded his head. “I don’t like my hands messy," he mumbled, eyes downcast.

“I know, love.” John knew that Sherlock had symptoms of OCD, too. His partner was meticulous with what he ate. He never ate on a case because food tended to disturb his stomach and, when his stomach acted up, he couldn’t work. IBS tended to be a lesser known side effect of Autism. 

When he ate, though, he was very particular about what kind of food he ate. Sherlock loved French pastries, burgers, dumplings, chips and pasta. Also, he had a lot of rules with eating. For instance, he wouldn’t eat without a fork and spoon unless eating crisps or chips; also, the utensils had to be metallic. 

Hence today. John watched as Sherlock ate his cut burger and his chips. After eating, he would definitely wash his hands. It must have been hard to be him, but John would never change him for the world. 

After they ate, Sherlock and John went to the bathroom as John had knownSherlock would do. He washed his hands until his fingers were raw. “Sherlock, stop it, love.” John said. Luckily for him, Sherlock did stop. 

They went to their rental car. As he was entering the car, Sherlock went to the left side. “I want to drive,” Sherlock said. 

John hesitated but he moved to the right side in order for Sherlock to sit himself on the driver's side.

They sat there in companionable silence. Sherlock did all the safety protocols expected of him. “Okay,” said John. “I am bored, Sherlock, let’s play a game.” 

Sherlock glared at him. “What game are we talking about?”

John thought about it for a second. “Two truths and a lie,” John said.

“Oh, John, that’s silly.” Sherlock scoffed.

“Please, Sherlock. I am bored.”

“I don’t play games for lesser minds,” Sherlock said.

“Okay, Sherlock,” John said, thinking about which game to play with Sherlock. “Can you deduce people by their cars, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shrugged. “There wouldn’t be checks and balances because we couldn’t ask the person.”

John grinned. “I can tell if your guess is accurate, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded. “Alright, let’s play.”

John thought for a bit. “What is the job of the person in the truck?” There was a truck right next to them: a honking green Ford f150. 

Sherlock glanced at the guy inside the truck and said, “He’s a doctor, with two children, judging by the stickers of his family on the back of the truck. He has been using the truck in the mountain, judging by the tyres.” He pointed at the tyres.

“Incredible, Sherlock,” John said. “That was amazing. How about that car? He pointed at a black Mercedes Benz.

Sherlock examined the car. “It is a teenager in there, John. Maybe sixteen or seventeen. He’s with a girl. He stole this car from a parent, and the parent had been calling him.”

“Wait, love, how did you know that his parent was calling him?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The parent has been calling him all this time. He wasn’t answering his communique. He looks nervous though.”

John nodded. “Oh, amazing, Sherlock, amazing.”

Sherlock smiled. 

They drove in companionable silence interjected with laughter and games. Sherlock was funny and he wasn’t trying to be. They got to Denver after almost twenty hours of driving.

****

It was ten in the evening. Sherlock and John sat in the hotel cafeteria, eating their dinner when Mycroft rang. Sherlock answered after the first ring. “Hello,” he said.

“Where are you?” Mycroft asked. 

“We are in downtown Denver. Why?” He stood up to go to an alcove somewhere.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft said worriedly. “I know you hate the idea of working with police officers not named Lestrade-”

Sherlock cut him off. “Get to your point, Mycroft. I am very tired.” 

Mycroft sounded grim. “Carter is in danger. Anthea called Peter and he confirmed that he had brought him to a conversion camp. I did my own research and what I found was horrid, Sherlock.”

He looked at John and moved the conversation. “What do you want me to do, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, annoyed.

“I want you to apply for a position at the camp,” his brother said.

Sherlock thought about John and his experiences. “I need to speak with John first,” Sherlock said.

“Of course,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Stop spying, Mycroft.” With that, Sherlock hung up without another word.

Sherlock went back to his seat. 

“What did Mycroft want?” 

Sherlock looked at John very deliberately and said, “Carter is in a conversion camp, and Mycroft wants us to infiltrate the place.

John didn’t reply; he wouldn’t even look at Sherlock. “John?” Sherlock asked.

“I want to rescue those kids from the hell they are in, Sherlock. Let’s do this. No child should feel that their sexuality or their minds are wrong,” John said, defiantly. 

Sherlock nodded his head. They stood up and went to their room. 

Wherein they undressed each other and kissed each other's lips, licking their body as they morphed into one. After which they fell asleep with each other. 

—-————————-


	5. Chapter 5

John woke up at four in the morning and he groaned loudly because it was an hour later than he and Sherlock had agreed upon. Beside him, Sherlock was still asleep. 

He shook Sherlock’s shoulder. “Go away, John,” Sherlock said. 

“We need to go, love. It’s now four o’clock in the morning.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock stood up and made his way to the hotel bathroom, John following. By mutual agreement, the two lovers bathe at the same time, washing each other's bodies. 

They got dressed hastily, because it was getting late. They needed to be in Utah by late afternoon, four at the latest, because they needed to finalise the whole their mission. 

They came to another stop at a strip mall near the border of Colorado and Utah. “Breakfast time," John said. It was nearing ten in the morning and they had only had cookies and a cup of coffee from Starbucks.

They had pizza which Sherlock could only eat one piece of and bought juice instead. After eating they hit the road and headed to Utah. 

Mycroft texted them an office address in Salt Lake City. They were nearing the city when they first got the text message and Sherlock was asleep. John stopped by a petrol station and answered. “What do you want, Mycroft?”

“The address I gave my brother is for a psychologist who works for the foundation that organised the…” Mycroft’s voice in a rare show of compassion let the words trail off. 

John heard what Mycroft was trying to say. “Right, camp.”

He could hear Mycroft rustling papers in his desk. “What time is it in Utah, John?”

John looked up at the clock on the dash. “It says here that it’s four in the afternoon.”

He could hear Mycroft sigh. “Okay, John, one of my people will send you two a resume for Jack Wilson and Sherrin Vernet, later today, okay?” 

“What’s going on here?” John asked, a bit annoyed.

“John,” Mycroft said. “You will go there and work, and get Carter. Did Sherlock tell you anything about the plan?”

“No, he told me nothing. What I know is where the hellhole we're going to fetch Carter from is,” John said.

John could hear Mycroft sigh at the other end of the line. “I asked Sherlock to get these people.”

John sighed again. Sherlock was waking up next to him in the car. 

“John?” Sherlock questioned. “Where are we?”

“Utah. Your brother is on the phone,” John said. “Sherlock, why did you not tell me?”

“Ah..” Sherlock was fidgeting in his seat.

“Is that what you are going to say about this?” John said.

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I didn’t want you to say no to this case because of your childhood…”

John was angry however he was also amused with how Sherlock wanted to protect John. “Next time, tell me, please.” 

He put the rental car on drive and drove to the hotel. John sat in the car thinking about why Sherlock didn’t want to tell him their itinerary for the days while they were in Utah. 

They arrived at a hotel a couple of minutes later. Sherlock was slumped in his seat from tirednesd; John watched his he left the rental. After a while Sherlock stood up and touched his arm lovingly. He knew that Sherlock was apologising to him.

They checked in. At the reception desk, John used the identity Mycroft gave them: John was now Jack and Sherlock would be Sherrin. 

After paying for the rooms, he followed Sherlock up in the lifts. As soon as John was inside the room, Sherlock lay on the bed and fell asleep.

A couple of hours later found John in bed with Sherlock. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was ten-thirty at night. Sherlock stirred beside him.

He was still angry with Sherlock for not telling John about his plan. However, he couldn’t be angry at him for long. He kissed Sherlock on the head. He picked up their identification and brought it into the bed. There was an information sheet.

John read about the camp Mycroft’s ‘son’ was in. He learned two things and Sherlock would hate him for it. First, the camp was affiliated to the Mormon Church and it used ‘behaviourism’ techniques. He wouldn’t tell Sherlock. With that John fell back asleep.

The next morning when John woke Sherlock at nine, his partner was still asleep. Sherlock must have been coming down with a cold or flu if he was still asleep at this hour. 

One aquamarine eye peeked out from underneath the blankets. “John, what time is it?” Sherlock asked, rocking back and forth.

John gaged Sherlock’s mood from the rocking. Ever since his return Sherlock would rock more when he was upset; PTSD symptoms in people with Autism included regression. He was rocking more vigorously now. 

“I am sorry, John,” Sherlock blurted out. 

John shook his head. 

He walked towards Sherlock’s side. “We’re late, Sherlock,” John said ushering Sherlock outside. They walked towards the lift and to the garage. Sherlock sat in the driver seat before John could. 

Sherlock began to drive towards the direction of the ANAZAZI wilderness camp central office near the Joseph Smith's memorial. John was gritting his teeth in the passenger seat for how fast Sherlock drove on the motorway. At one point, John thought they were going to crash.

Sherlock didn’t open his car door. He looked at John and blurted out “When I was away, I talked to you.” 

John felt bewildered. Where on earth was he coming from? John thought. “I don’t know what to say here, Sherlock.” 

However, Sherlock continued. “You may question why am I telling you. I want you to know I regretted the jump.” He was nervously tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “I am sorry, John, if I could change what happened with Moriarty I would, so that we could be together,” Sherlock said moving his fingers on the car’s leather interior. 

John was flabbergasted with those words. Sherlock Holmes was telling him that he made a terrible mistake. This man who was extremely overwhelmed while conversing about emotions was telling him that he made a horrible mistake about the fall/Moriarty. 

He wanted to talk to Sherlock about what happened after the fall. However, they were running late and they needed to see the director. So John ushered Sherlock out of the car. “Let's go, love.”

Sherlock followed John inside of the camp’s headquarters. They were stopped by a tall African-American man who was wearing a camp shirt. “Hi, How can we help you?”

“My friend and I have an appointment with Chairman of the board, Mr Milverton,” Sherlock said, faking an American accent.

“You are?” The guy asked, looking at Sherlock with disgust.

Sherlock glared at the man with such recreation that the man flinched. “Sherrinford Vernet,” Sherlock introduced himself and then he pointed at John. “This is Jack Wilson.”

The man gave them a pointed look. “Okay, go on, turn left and right.” They moved accordingly, It was a non discrete brown door. He knocked. They were met by a man who was wearing a brown shirt with the company logo on. 

“My name is Jack,” John said in a fake Utahan accent. “This my friend, Sherrinford.” Sherlock huffed. 

“Ah, Mr. Milverton is waiting for you." John thanked the man for his help.

Mr. Carl Andrew Milverton was tall, dark and somewhat handsome, if you didn’t know who he was. John looked at Sherlock beside him who’s face was ashen and very pale. “Sherlock, are you, okay? John asked. 

Sherlock nodded his head, yes. He signed. ‘I am fine, Milverton just creeps me out.’

John nodded and signed back. “You are going to be okay.”

“Let’s go.” They were being led by a young man, not older than twenty, into Milverton’s office. 

Milverton was sat at his desk. “Okay, boys, can I see your CV.”  
John handed Milverton the fake forms that one of Mycroft’s people had handed them yesterday in the hotel room.

Milverton glanced at the CVs. “If you could start now, I would definitely appreciate the help.”

John glanced at Sherlock and at Milverton. They nodded their heads. “Okay, sir," John said standing up.  
They shook hands with the man. He beckoned Sherlock outside, and asked him sotto voce, “How are you feeling, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shook his head as if to clear it. “I am fine,” Sherlock said huffing. John nodded and instead of patting Sherlock’s arm he gave him a smile as they were exiting the building. 

By mutual agreement, they decided John was to drive them from Salt Lake City to St. George. They got there five hours later.

The two checked into a hotel wherein Sherlock wanted to talk. Sherlock looked at John, who said, “No, not right now, love, okay.” Sherlock huffed and sulked.

St. George, Utah was desert and sand. Sherlock wore jeans which John had no idea he owned. Sherlock was annoyed his hair wasn’t curly due to the weather. 

John drove them to the camp grounds where they would work as camp counsellors for the kids. It was a dusty, wretchedly dull place. They had three more counsellors but they were dull. John shook his head and almost huffed at himself. 

John thought that they would be there to talk to the ‘troubled kids.’ However, their duty as far as John could tell, was a really good camp for them. Carter was nowhere to be found. 

On the third day, while they were at the hotel eating, they were talking about Carter’s predicament when Sherlock said he wasn’t sure if the child was still alive.

“We didn’t find him in the camp even when we walked from one end to another.” If Sherlock wasn’t sure whether or not Carter was alive then they had a problem. John nodded his head and they began their day. He drove them to ground camp. 

————————————


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was annoyed with his brother about being in the goddamn desert. He wasn’t annoyed at Carter; he was annoyed with the environment. He couldn’t sleep, the taste of the tea was so much more inferior than in London and it was really hot.

It was a hateful scenario, Sherlock thought, looking and walking towards the camp grounds located in the Utah desert. He saw a dilapidated small cottage near a cactus. The only one he had seen in the whole desert so far. This seems odd, he thought. He went to investigate.

He opened the door and entered. As soon as he was inside, he gasped. There were four kids that had been left inside sitting on chairs next to each other and they were reading bibles. 

A boy looked up at him, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old. Sherlock looked back but he was really uncomfortable. Kids shouldn’t have been there. He saw a familiar ginger haired boy. “Carter?” he said, looking at him. 

Carter was thinner and taller than he remembered and was sitting at the table reading a bible. “Sherlock,” said the boy standing up. “Why are you here?”

Sherlock was propped up on a wall, texting John. ‘I have found him, John. SH.’ He answered Carter’s question matter of factly.

‘Carter,’ John replied. Sherlock’s phone rang. Sherlock answered at the first ring. 

“Where are you?” John said without preamble. 

“I’ve found him,” Sherlock shrilled. 

“What? You found Carter, Sherlock?” John was probably thinking that Sherlock was mad. 

“I need to call my brother.” Sherlock hung up, he realised that he didn’t know where he was. “I have an idea, John, turn on the GPS on your iPhone. Find me on there,” he told John impatiently. 

“Okay,” John said. Sherlock could hear clicks from the other end of the line. He texted a contact for the St. George Police. ‘I found him. SH.’

Then he called Mycroft. It was the middle of the morning in London. “Sherlock, did you find him? How is he?” 

Sherlock sighed tiredly. “I don’t know yet, Mycroft, however, he is alive and conscious. “

Mycroft sighed too, a very grateful one. “ Sherlock, I will pay John handsomely for the help. I know you don’t want any of it.”

Sherlock knew that this was unwise however needs must. “Mycroft, please tell Anthea, she needs to get full custody of Carter. She also needs to press charges against him.”

“I’ll tell her,” said Mycroft quietly. His brother hung up. Sherlock waited for John while Carter and the other kids quietly awaited their youth minister.

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing here?” Carter asked with his very distinctive English accent.

Sherlock looked at the boy. “Why are you here, Carter? And I don’t want to hear the bollocks that your dad gave your mother.” 

Carter looked at him embarrassed. “He caught me masturbating to a picture of David Beckham.”

Sherlock looked like he couldn't comprehend what Carter had said. “Who?” he asked looking at his watch; he was waiting for John.

Carter rolled his eyes. “You don’t know who David Beckham is? I pity you.”

A beat of silence later, John Watson arrived, followed by two St George Police officers. Sherlock nodded at the boys and girls sat at the shanty. “Mr Holmes?” The Police officer looked at him. 

Sherlock startled. “It's Sherlock,” he said and rolled his eyes. He didn’t like to be called ‘Mr Holmes’ because it sounded like Mycroft or, worse, his father.

One of the police officers looked at him. “Sherlock, then,” he said with a pen in his hand. “How did you find this house?”

The ambulance that Sherlock discretely called finally arrived. John let them in. “The most injured one goes first.” the medic said as he and John let them in. 

Carter was the most injured of the bunch with intensive injury throughout his body, dehydration and internal bleeding being one of his worst.

The medic who was strapping Carter in the gurney looked intently at Sherlock and asked, “Are you coming with us, sir?” 

“Oh my god,” said John, startling Sherlock into looking at him. “You look just like him, love.”

Sherlock nodded. “I can,” he said, looking at John while climbing into the ambulance. “John!” he bellowed. “See you at the hospital?”

John nodded as the ambulance left the house. Sherlock texted Mycroft. ‘Carter being brought to hospital.’

Mycroft answered instantaneously. ‘Any injuries?’

‘As far as I can tell, he doesn’t have any injuries that are life threatening.’

Then a phone call startled Sherlock; it was Mycroft. “Hello, brother mine. Anthea is on her way to the airport. Just keep him safe and tell them he is allergic to penicillin based drugs, okay.”

“Yes, I will. Bye.” He hung up his phone. 

An hour later, they arrived at the hospital with Sherlock staving off a meltdown by pacing. He was closer than he liked; he was rocking minisculely. He wasn’t ashamed of being on the autism spectrum because his particular brain chemistry aided him with the work. 

However, Sherlock loathed its other side effects. Like now. Sherlock was rocking back and forth in the middle of a bloody hospital because he was stressed out. The smell and the sound was too much. 

“Sir?” one of the doctors said. Sherlock wore a very stylish and discreet medical alert bracelet. The doctor, as per usual, didn’t see his bracelet. The doctor put a hand on his shoulder. BIG MISTAKE. 

Sherlock was at the end of the rope by now. He began to kick the doctor like a mental patient. Sherlock could see a man with a syringe. Sherlock kicked once. 

He could hear a very familiar voice. “Check his bracelet: he’s not psychotic, he’s autistic and in sensory overload. You can not use haloperidol on him,” John said. 

“John?” 

“Yes, love?”

The doctor checked his bracelet. As soon as Sherlock was freed from the men’s clutches, he ran towards a supply cupboard. 

—————-

John Watson entered the Accidents and Emergencies department. He was looking for Sherlock when he saw two men in white coats huddled around a man with curly black hair. “Check his bracelet: he’s not psychotic, he’s autistic and in sensory overload. You can not use haloperidol on him,” he shouted at the men. 

He looked around the A&E for Sherlock who had bolted to the nearest supply cupboard. He found Sherlock five minutes later rocking and humming. “Love, are you alright?” 

Sherlock didn’t even look towards his direction. John hunched down beside Sherlock and touched his arm very firmly. “Sherlock!” Sherlock looked at John. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, John, I am alright,” Sherlock said sarcastically.

“Sorry, sorry, of course you’re not alright.”

Sherlock winced a bit with the shoulder movement. “They twisted my damm arm.” John looked at the arm and kissed it softly. 

Sherlock grabbed John’s sunglasses off of his t-shirt and stood up. John followed him out. Sherlock’s eyes were downcast.

They walked the hospital corridors, Sherlock following him behind in a more sedate phase, into a room down the corridor. The men entered the room quietly. The boy was sedated. 

“John,” Sherlock said, moving towards Carter’s bed. “This is not fair, what happened to him is not fair. He was just being himself and he was subjected to this. The governments needs to ban the use of conversion therapy….”

“I know,” said John, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist.

“The worst thing was knowing that you had gone through it too. I know ABA therapy and conversion therapy is not the same, but the toll emotionally for people who are different is hard,” Sherlock whispered.

“I know,” What could he say? Sherlock was saying the right thing. That was sentiment he had shared.

“Mr. Holmes?” Sherlock turned around to face her. “Are Carter’s parents coming?” a nurse said. Sherlock didn’t reply as quickly as the nurse wanted. He looked at John.

“Sherlock?” John enquired. Sherlock looked at his nose in a very practiced motion. 

“Yes?”

“Sherlock, the nurse is asking you something.” 

Sherlock nodded. “What?” 

“Mr. Holmes, are his parents coming here?” 

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t know. His biological father is my brother, but his step father…” 

“Don’t call him?” John said and Sherlock nodded. 

“Why?” The nurse crossed her arms.  
Sherlock and John pursed their lips. “I don’t know if you can tell that but this child was from Anazazi.” Sherlock looked at the woman as if she was an idiot. "He was one of the three teenagers that my partner and I rescued.”

The nurse nodded. “Alright, Mr. Holmes. We won’t inform his father.” After a short while of actually checking her patient's vitals, the nurse left Sherlock and John with Carter.

“What are the conditions of other kids?” John asked after the nurse left. The others had been sent to different hospitals.

“I don’t know, John. When I got there, I saw Carter and he didn’t look good. I know my periphery. I saw others. I did not see them,” said Sherlock sitting down next to Carter’s bed. 

After a while, Sherlock said, “I want to go to the other hospital, John. I want to talk to people.” John nodded.

They walked from the hospital to their rental car; Sherlock held John’s hand the whole walk. 

On their way to the other hospital, Mycroft called Sherlock to inform him that he and Anthea would be on the next flight out.

Sherlock drove and John sat on the passenger seat thinking about the anger Sherlock showed earlier today. They arrived at the hospital after a five minute drive. 

As soon as they were inside Sherlock began to have some of the same issues he had been having earlier today. John had to guide Sherlock through the hospital which he had never done. 

They entered the lifts, with Sherlock on the brink of a meltdown. “Sherlock, love, I know you cannot….”

Sherlock snapped and was in John’s face. “This is becoming tedious. I hate hospitals, John, I hate the smell and the sound. I can hear the monitors from here,” Sherlock said.  
“I know,” John said. The lift door opened to the second floor where the boy’s room was located. 

As the two men walked through the corridors, Sherlock lent on John who gave Sherlock his arm. 

They reached the room where Earvin Jazz was. Jazz was a fourteen year old brought to Anazazi by his parents. He was seen touching himself and failing at his classes.

His mother was there when the two men arrived. Sherlock and John made eye contact. “I’ll talk to her,” he said at the same time as Sherlock said, “I’ll talk to him.” They smiled at each other. 

“Mrs. Jazz, I am John Watson, we’re consulting with St. George Police. Why did you let your son be abused?” John asked, angry. 

“Excuse me.”

John was annoyed. “Why?”  
————————————-

Sherlock went to sit on the chair closest to Earvin’s bed while John was arguing with the boy’s mother. He was very nervous because he didn’t do well with teenagers. Teenagers were a mystery to him. “I am a detective from London. So, can you tell me what happened to Carter Alexander?” Sherlock asked. 

Earvin looked at him. “The day the Alexander kid was brought here, I was brought to that house I was at. See, I was in and out of it.”

Sherlock nodded. “Why?” 

“Attitude. When we misbehaved, we were brought to another location.”

“What other location?” Sherlock asked the boy.

“There was another one, house, or I think it was a house.” Earvin said. “We went there when we were not doing good.”

Sherlock nodded. “You didn’t know?”

“Blindfolded,” Earvin said. 

Sherlock, realising the extent of the kids' ordeal, was panting and left a confused Earvin gaping after him.

He saw John outside and they walked hand in hand through the hospital. 

—————————————————


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU. BETH

Epilogue:

John and Sherlock were back in London for five days. John Watson was on the way in Sherlock’s BMW (which he didn’t know Sherlock had) to go and meet with his mother alone. He had been thinking about his childhood since he and Sherlock had come back from the United States. 

He was abused as a child and, it was plain to see, a victim of religious ideology. His experience at camp shaped him, like those kids in Anazazi. His mind was mired with images of the camp; he had already had two nightmares already. 

He and Sherlock had spent four more days in the US, closing out the case 

When he and Sherlock got back to London, he called Harry and told her about the relationship. “It took you long enough. I thought you could never be honest about your sexuality,” she had said.

“What about mum?” he had asked. 

She had sighed, sounding a little pained. “Johnny, I will talk to her.”

He shook his head forgetting Harry couldn’t see him. “Harry, you can't." It should be him not her confronting their mother about being gay.

Harry laughed. “I hope you can convince her. You’re her favourite, you know.” They hung up. That phone call was three days ago and here he was, going to Yorkshire to talked with his homophobic mother about his relationship with Sherlock. 

A couple of hours later, he was standing at her door. “Mum?” 

“Johnny?” His mother stood there and hugged him. Would she hug him when she found out?

He entered the house. It was his childhood home and, despite what Sherlock or Mycroft believed his childhood wasn’t trashed or plagued by alcohol abuse and poverty. His father was a doctor and his mother a nurse. His sister studied law in university and was a solicitor. 

“Oh, what a surprise,” she said. 

“Mum, I need to talk with you. It’s important.” John looked at her nervously.

She was now nervous. “What is it, John?”

“Could we please sit down?” said John and they moved from the hall to the living area.

“Alright. I will bring you tea,” she said. “Here you go.” 

“I am seeing someone,” John said, blurting it out. 

His mother gave him a big smile. "Does she cook?"

“Mum, I am gay,” he said, looking at his mother. “And I won’t let you put my relationship down.”

Her voice was hostile. “I don’t know what's got into you…”

He cut her off. “I don’t know, mum. I know I love him and it doesn’t matter to me if he is a guy. “

“But…” John stopped her with his palm but she continued, “I thought the therapy worked.”

John laughed a deep harsh sound. “You know, mum, for many years I hated myself for being gay.”

“But they assured us,” his mother said.

“No, mother, they didn’t assure you,” John said. “They just assured my compliance, mum… You can’t change your sexuality…. Me being gay is a part of who I am, mum, and who Harry is. ”

“Then I have no children,” she said.

“I am glad to be leaving. I am done with you and your fucking hatred. You want to accept call but for now I am leaving. I don’t need your approval anyway.” With that John stormed out of her house with the intention of never returning. He left as his mother started crying. 

—————

A couple of days later, John was still reeling with the visit to his mother. Sherlock was invited to a crime scene by Lestrade near Kensington. “It's at least an eight, John,” Sherlock said, jumping up and down with glee. “Let’s go, John.” 

They hailed a taxi cab in front of 221. He just sighed looking at Sherlock looking at the wall. He loved when Sherlock was happy; his face was relaxed and his eyes were twinkling.

However, as soon as Sherlock saw Donavan in front of the yellow tape, he sighed. “Hello, freak, Lestrade said you were in America. What were you doing over there? Getting away with murder?” 

As soon as Donavan said that, Sherlock’s face displayed his hurt before schooling it and he said, “How is it with Anderson? Is it good babysitting his kids without him in the house 

John glared at Donavan and he moved on following Sherlock behind the tape.

Overall, John thought it was far from the worst experience with Donavan as he and Sherlock went to stand near Greg. 

Then Anderson was there and in Sherlock’s face. “Don’t contaminate my crime scene, freak.”

John looked at Anderson with a ferocity that scared Sherlock. John looked at Sherlock and back at Anderson. “Hey,” John shouted.

“Watson, no.” Anderson was fearfully trembling and looking at John. John just shrugged, and Sherlock pleaded with his eyes as John put his hands on Anderson’s neck ready to strangle him.

“You and Donavan.” He turned to Greg. “Get Donavan, please.” When Greg hesitated John shouted, “Now.” Greg got Donavan. When she came, John shouted, “Donavan, huh, I hate when you fuck with Sherlock. Do not fucking call my boyfriend a freak ever again. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

Sherlock and the other met officers looked at him with different mindsets. The Met officers and Greg looked at him with horror while Sherlock looked with admiration. Donavan and Anderson looked at John with horror.

Sherlock had been looking at the body but he turned to John when he said boyfriend. John looked at everyone and everybody was looking at him. Greg and Hopkins (one of the Sargeants that didn’t hate Sherlock) beamed at them.

“I told you so…” one of the officers murmured. 

THE END


End file.
